


higher than the moon

by tinyweirdloves



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, art model!zayn, lots of paint, oblivious flirting over sandwiches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyweirdloves/pseuds/tinyweirdloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>au. zayn is an art model and liam should not be staring this much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	higher than the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> written for [raphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plentyoftimetosleep) for the [2014 ziam exchange](http://ziam-exchange.livejournal.com)! 
> 
> original prompt was "model!zayn, pining!liam". i suppose that's what i've written, even though i'm not sure if it's what you had in mind when writing the prompt. anyways. i very much hope you enjoy.
> 
> title from [i do adore by mindy gledhill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eP5cJfVScGw); incidentally, a song that's pretty much a three-minute summary of this entire thing. listening is highly recommended.

Liam stares defeatedly at the small mountain of sandwiches piled in front of him.

No. Not defeatedly. If he faces this defeatedly, there’s no way he’s getting through it. He tries to unfurrow his eyebrows and then experimentally smiles at the tattooed hipster-looking girls who happen to be passing by his table. They smile back, thankfully – but is Liam imagining things, or is it more of a how-cute-are-non-arty-people smile than actual friendly human contact?

Oh, God. It’s day one, this hasn’t even properly started yet and he’s already thinking like this. Maybe he should just give up and stay on defeated.

He goes back to staring at the sandwiches, frowning slightly. (Who made these, anyway? Why are they so… messy? Are all arty sandwiches like this?) Liam is not good at these things. No, Liam is very much not good at these things. It’s not like he’s not good at talking to people, or being nice to people– it’s just, well. Usually, these things, for him, tend to involve more old ladies and pregnant women and stray dogs than roomfuls of wild-haired people carrying around easels and what look like military supplies of drawing material. So, for one, he feels a little out of his depth, and… fine, okay, he’ll admit it. He feels slightly intimidated. And he’s good at being nice to people, yes, but– when he’s, when he’s intimidated by said people, things don’t usually go quite so smoothly.

Louis should be here, anyway, not him. For one, it’s highly possible he’s sleeping with an artist, so there’s the chance he’ll be used to them already, and also, well. If it weren’t for Louis, Liam wouldn’t actually _be_ here to begin with. So it’d make sense to blame him, wouldn’t it?

In Liam’s defense, he’s never been much use at resisting a pleading Louis, especially when said pleas are something strongly Harry-motivated. (Definitely sleeping with him.) So when Louis had come up to him in after attempts to both cook something edible and do the washing up and casually mentioned what a great time he’d have selling sandwiches at Hazza’s art convention (since when do art conventions sell sandwiches anyway?), Liam had held up for all of ten minutes. Of course, it was only after he’d agreed that he was informed that Harry couldn’t actually afford to pay him. (At least Liam’s obtained the solemn promise from Louis that he’ll be allowed to get a dog after this. He’s not coming out of it completely empty-handed.)

So. Here he is, then. Behind a table in a room of arty people, with five water bottles, three apples, and a pile of messy sandwiches in front of him.

He chances another look at his surroundings, taking it all in. They’re in some sort of studio, it looks like, a flat where the walls have been pulled down to leave a single spacious room except with a kitchen and a toilet at the far end. Two of the walls are cluttered, shelves overflowing with books and endless tins of paint and prints and cutouts pinned up everywhere; the other two are bare, albeit slightly paint-splattered, one displaying an oversized poster for the event (“The Human Figure: a collective study,” catchy) and the other six floor-to-ceiling windows, the late-morning light slanting through them onto the tables placed in front.

And there’s a hum in the air, too; the atmosphere seems charged with a murmur of quiet anticipation, a perceptible thrum of creative energy building up all around him. These people – they’re _excited_ about this, Liam realizes. The air in the room feels like a runner’s warm-up stretches, somehow, only with art; these people are settling into a very specific state of mind, they’re about to create something and they’re excited about it and although Liam would never admit this to anyone, wouldn’t even say the words out loud, what he feels at the thought is envy.

*

Liam does not believe in bitterness. He believes in shaking yourself off, picking yourself up and moving on as quickly as you can manage to try to find something better: he’s always done his best at not dwelling too much on past failures, because he doesn’t want them to blind him into not noticing other chances that might present themselves unexpectedly. And, like every other person in their early twenties, he’s also gone through a fair amount of prospective future occupations. The first one he recalls was wanting to be an astronaut (a hope that was dashed to the ground after a particularly vicious childhood friend told him he’d most likely get sucked into a black hole and no one would ever see him again – Liam hadn’t even known black holes _existed_ until then); he settled for astronomer then before realizing that, wait, was he going to spend his entire life as a grown-up staring up at the stars when things as exciting as superheroes and footballers and vets were somewhere out there? There’s been dog-walker (he knew boys around the neighbourhood got paid for it – it had to be a real job, right?), postman, singer, athlete, and that fireman thing that had lasted for quite a while before settling into the business uni course he’s starting his last year of in September. And, despite everything, he’s never felt like he’s had his dreams crushed, except–

Except he recalls afternoons during his first years of school, paint smeared all over his clothes; green, blue, orange-sticky fingers tracing over paper carefully, vibrant primary-school colours in filled-in shapes and slightly crooked lines and small handprints all over it when he was done – or, rather, when the teacher finally asked him if _wasn’t he finished yet, Liam? Look, let’s put the paint away already and we can put it up to dry._ He recalls the few times he’d been to museums with his mum, standing awestruck in front of the paintings, not understanding a thing but invariably having to be all but pulled away. And he recalls the frustration that came later: not really with the slow realization that he was rubbish at art, which, okay, fair enough, but with the fact that this meant that he was going to have to drop it, because _Liam, what’s the point of putting so much effort into something that, quite frankly, it’s entirely possible you’re going to fail?_ And _that’s not the point,_ he’d wanted to scream, but he’d cast his eyes down and agreed instead, because his GCSEs weren’t going to pass themselves all on their own, were they?

But still. He recalls _feeling,_ feeling so alive and focused and _there_ that the rest of the world around him seemed to fade away into a fuzzy, inconsequential background; the thrill of making something with his bare hands that hadn’t been there before; and, most of all, the bone-deep calm, the feeling that this was all he’d ever need to face the world.

Still, some things you aren’t good at, and some things you just don’t have the time for, and Liam’s not about to break his strict no-bitterness rule anytime soon.

*

He watches, then, because there’s really nothing else to do, and because he has to admit that the buzz in the room is starting to become infectious. Harry stops by a few times and thanks him for coming so earnestly that Liam finds he actually means it when he tells him it’s no big deal. It’s surprisingly nice to watch Harry like this, Liam thinks. He looks so genuinely delighted, so absolutely _thrilled_ that all this is building itself up around him that Liam is tempted to check whether or not his feet are actually touching the ground. Dimly, he wonders what would happen if Louis was here to see it. (Because he’s established that they’re a thing, right? No one can always look so simultaneously sex-sated and happy in someone else’s presence without it being a thing. Probably.)

So he’s a spectator as it unfolds like an origami figure, as the studio fills up gradually and people start settling on the mismatched stools around the windows. Slowly, the easy atmosphere starts draining away: something more serious seeps into the room bit by bit, something more internal, more focused. It’s in people’s eyes, in the slight furrow of their eyebrows as they take in the angle of the sunlight through the windows; in the way the sound of voices in the room hushes, lowers to a murmur; in the gradual stillness that seems to take over Harry as he stops trying to hold five different conversations at once and strides towards the door instead, shutting it purposefully and surveying the seated artists with a barely-suppressed grin. And it’s also in the way the five or six people in robes that have been milling around for a while, after a brief conversation with Harry, seem to get some sort of purpose: each of them moves to one of the tables set up along the room and sort of hovers there like they’re waiting for something to happen.

“Alright, everyone!” comes Harry’s cheerful voice. “Er, let’s get this started, shall we?” A chorus of assents comes from the people on the stools – how many are there by now? Thirty? Forty? – and Liam watches Harry look very pleased indeed before continuing. “Um… so everyone’s here already, I think? So. You probably already know, don’t you, but you have a week to draw something related to the body, everything else is completely up to you. And, yeah, it’s supposed to be a competition and all that.” He grins and half-shrugs. “Anyway, I know you’re doing it for the _art,_ not the money.” That earns a loose sort of laughter. “These lovely people,” he does a wide gesture towards the people in robes, “will be your models for this week, okay? Be nice to them.”

Liam’s attention starts to waver as Harry starts saying something about how today they’re just going to sketch and before he can even realize it he’s shooting glances at the models (trying not to stare outright. He doesn’t want to be rude). He really doesn’t know very much about art, but it's always curious to see how it tends to have slightly different standards to the world out there. This is no exception. Liam takes in the four girls, and while by conventional standards they probably wouldn't be considered exceptionally beautiful, there's something eye-catching about them all the same. Liam suspects it's something beyond physical appearance: all of them have... _something_ about them that's a little different, not quite fitting with the way Liam's used to seeing people hold themselves. He wouldn't know how to define it exactly, but it's there, definitely noticeable, and just for a second he can't wait for everyone to start drawing because he wants an excuse to look at it more clearly– but, as interesting as it may be, his train of thought is abruptly frozen in place, because _wait._

He hadn't been checking out the girls. It'd probably be a bit weird, he'd reasoned, since he's about to sit here for a week with nothing to do but watch people paint them - but those thoughts fly right out of the window because he's caught sight of the one male model there is, and- and _what was he thinking again?_

Just- just, _okay,_ he might need a second to recover from this. 

He tries not to look too much, tries not to be completely obvious about it, but something tells him it's possible he's failing spectacularly because the stealing glances thing has completely gone to hell. He outright stares as the guy moves a little closer to the table nearest to Liam's and- and it's like the sun has hit him right in the eyes just from looking at this guy's _face._ It's– it's– Liam fumbles for words to describe it– it's like _art,_ that's what it's like. It looks like it should be painted somewhere on the walls of an Italian chapel; the jawline and the cheekbones might as well be carved into marble in one of the museums he'd visited once or twice when he was younger. And the only thing Liam can think is _this doesn't belong here._ Not _here_ specifically – a paint-splattered art studio seems like just the place for someone like this, actually – but, like, less than fifteen feet away from Liam. Breathing the same air, and all that. Liam feels, very suddenly, more out of place than he's done all morning. 

Of course, he’s too busy staring at this possibly supernatural being to actually pay attention to anything Harry’s saying, and it’s absolutely flawless timing because before Liam realizes, everyone’s got their pencils out and the guy hops up onto the table and drops the robe off his shoulders easily. And, _of course,_ he’s wearing nothing underneath.

Liam knew about this. They’re supposed to be drawing the human body, for Christ’s sake; besides, Louis had sort of sheepishly let it drop after Liam had agreed to go, and of course Harry had asked him in this deadly-serious tone if he wouldn’t be uncomfortable with, you know, people being naked, that he could always find someone else if he didn’t want to do it. And Liam had been a little shocked and a little uneasy at first, but had assured both of them that no, it wouldn’t be a problem, really, he was fine with it (and, fine, he’ll admit it, his inner frustrated artist had emerged for the first time since year ten and even if he didn’t get to draw he could at least see how it was done when everyone was an actual professional). So, yeah, Liam knew about this, and he meant it when he told Harry it wouldn’t make him uncomfortable (it’s mostly just really, really interesting) and he shouldn’t have forgotten it completely because he was staring at a fit guy. It just takes him by surprise, is all.

So he can only stare for a full two seconds before his brain catches up with the situation and his gaze immediately snaps down to the sandwiches, mortified. And maybe he has to discreetly squeeze his eyes shut while he’s at it and adjust his trousers slightly, feeling his face flare; and maybe he stays like that for longer than what it takes for his face to stop burning, but if he does, well, it’s not like anyone can blame him anyway.

*

Eventually, though, he does look up, because he’s only human and because he’s spent a while reasoning with himself about how maybe no one noticed him staring and well, they’re art models, isn’t being looked at what they do? He carefully keeps his eyes off the guy in front of him for the time being, instead focusing on the girls, and– the feeling he’d had before it was interrupted by his dick completely taking over his brain only intensifies. The models are moving slowly now, apparently as part of a series of sketching exercises Harry’d mentioned to “warm everyone up,” and even though none of them comes close to matching the guy in sheer blinding looks, Liam can’t tear his eyes away.

They know what they’re doing, that much is obvious. Their bodies arch and shift and undulate slowly, their skin catching sunlight and shadows seemingly of its own accord. Liam watches the pale blue-haired girl to the right of his table as she does a particularly seamless slow twirl; for a second, Liam is dumbstruck at the understated confidence that seems to emanate from every one of her movements, of how at home she looks in her own skin, and wonders briefly how he could ever have thought she wasn’t attractive.

Speaking of which…

Carefully, more carefully than he’d want to admit, Liam’s eyes inch to the person they’ve been avoiding. He wants to make himself smaller for some reason, wants to disappear completely so no one can see him look; but, at the same time, he finds he’s so transfixed that it’s surprisingly easy to stop paying attention to the way his thoughts are all stumbling into one another. Because what he’d noticed in the others before is impossible to miss here, and if you also consider the guy’s undeniable physical attractiveness– if it was hard to look away before, Liam’s eyes are positively glued to him now (much to the embarrassment of the part of his mind that still seems to be working properly).

There’s seemingly endless expanses of amber-coloured skin, lined over with the black ink of tattoos; there’s skinny limbs and defined chest muscles, firm lines that trace his torso and fade away at the spot where his legs begin. (He resolutely refuses to look any lower than that.) There’s stubble that Liam does not find sexy, not at _all_ ; there’s steady eyes and the dark swoop of a quiff and features so symmetrical and flawless that he’s still having believing they’re real, but above all, there’s the life behind the body. Liam glances at the sketches people are drawing and is amazed to find some of them are managing to get it down on paper. Because… it’s not even easy to clarify in his head, but after watching the guy stretch and languidly flow through different poses for what must be at least twenty minutes, he thinks he starts to get it, sort of. It’s control. It’s about being so completely aware of your own body that you can control everything, down to each twitch of a finger or flicker of an eyelid. And he’s in awe of it, of course he is – he can’t even imagine what it’d be like to be that comfortable in his own body – but, again, he’s only human, and he has to admit that it’s possibly also the sexiest thing he’s seen in his life.

He’s going to have to sit in this exact spot for five days straight, comes the horrible realization. Oh God. Oh no. He can only hope and pray that the table will be enough to hide every trace of any possible accidental boners. ( _Please_ no.)

And, well, it’s sort of unfortunate, really, that while this is what’s going through his head the guy chooses this moment to tilt his chin up the slightest bit and meet Liam’s eyes. There’s the briefest flicker of eye contact that makes something quick and warm rush through him and then he’s pulling his eyes away instantly, feeling like something’s been moved out of its place, uncomfortable and self-conscious but also strangely giddy all of a sudden. Fine, he knows Liam exists now, it’s really no big deal, and he tries to ignore the odd barrage of things he’s feeling and the thought that how come he’s the one feeling all uneasy if he’s not the one sitting there naked for everyone to draw?

*

Time passes. Slowly, but it passes.

There’s five-minute breaks every once in a while, so that the models can stretch out and roll back their shoulders, loosen the careful way they hold themselves and put their robes back on, which makes the mood in the room change noticeably, shifting to something far more casual. Surprisingly, Liam finds he’s actually selling things. People amble up to his table and buy the occasional apple or sandwich, and with what the disappearance of what he’s taken to calling the _art mood_ it’s easy to make small talk with them (they’re all lovely. He feels kind of guilty for having felt intimidated). But through talking about the sunshine and the studio and how the drawings are coming on, his eyes keep straying to the table in front of him… and the cautious glances he sneaks he unconsciously folds up and stores away until he realizes what he’s doing and mentally scolds himself. It’s just– he can’t decide what looks best on the guy, right, if it’s the catlike ease he wears when he’s modeling or– or this. At first glance, there’s not much of a change, but, unable to help himself, he keeps looking, and he can see it clear as day.

It’s sort of like a… retreating. The confidence that had been so easy to see before is still there, but it’s quieter now, more understated. Liam sees him chat to some of the artists, and it’s only made more obvious with interaction. He looks more relaxed now, he does, more loose limbs and less careful control, but for some reason he cuts a much less untouchable figure now. It’s not shyness, Liam decides, it’s something else: it’s something guarded, something kept private. And, okay, Liam has to admit it. He finds it fascinating. Not because he has a thing for vulnerability or anything (it can’t even be called vulnerability anyway) but because, like, he’s struck with the sudden urge to walk over and attempt a conversation, maybe, to say hi and introduce himself and find out the guy’s name, to just– know more. And perhaps he would, under normal circumstances, but now the thought alone makes his heartbeat pick up and his stomach twist in knots and his feet root themselves to the ground. He’s out of his element enough as it is, and it’s only Monday, and he can’t go out there and make a twat of himself and have to live with it for the rest of the week. He _can’t._

And if he finds himself secretly hoping that maybe, just maybe, the guy gets a sudden and intense craving for sandwiches and the like and somehow ends up at Liam’s table and Liam can use his small-talk skills to possibly lure him into thinking Liam’s interesting enough to chat to occasionally or give his number to or maybe even kiss at some point, who knows – it’s not like anyone has to know.

*

It’s the third break and, well, it’s not like there’s been much progress.

His mind insists that there’s no progress to make, that it’s completely unreasonable and weird, that what could he possibly be expecting – but his gut _knows,_ and it clenches each time the guy even glances his way. (There’s been no more eye contact, though. Liam isn’t sure if this is a good or a bad thing.)

But it’s lunch break now, a full fifty minutes instead of the barely-there five-minute ones from before, and it’s hard to wrestle down the irrational hope bubbling up in his chest. Hope for what, he’s not sure exactly, but… a conversation would be a good starting point, wouldn’t it? He can probably manage at least that by the end of the week. (He tries not to think about the fact that the thought of trying to hold a conversation with the as-yet-nameless guy makes him want to crawl under his table). He can– he may be rubbish at art, but he can mostly make people like him, right? Louis’ told him often enough that his most endearing traits are good-naturedness and his abs. He can probably put at least one of those two to good use in this situation.

But fifteen minutes pass, then twenty, then thirty, and Liam’s hopes start slowly sinking despite his efforts to be optimistic about things. Breaks are when people are supposed to buy stuff, and it’s a handy excuse for not walking up there and trying to initiate something himself – but if the guy isn’t interested enough in Liam’s sandwiches, or Liam himself, to come over, what’s he supposed to do? Attempt to flirt across a room? Cry?

He looks up and sees he’s talking to Harry now, Harry’s arm slung around his shoulders. As he watches (he really is starting to feel creepy now, but he just can’t help himself), the guy gives a short laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkle – it’s a lovely sight, and one that makes Liam’s stomach twist in unexplained nerves. Now would be the perfect time, he knows that: he knows Harry, after all, and has a perfectly good excuse for going up and saying hi. But… he’s suddenly struck with a rare sense of insecurity, _they look like they’re mates and they’re probably too polite to tell me to go away,_ so he looks away and tries to think of it as hopeless. It’s four more days. Four days and he never has to see hot model guy ever again.

He ducks his head down, looking for a distraction, and starts rooting through his backpack for his own sandwich. (He still can’t decide what’s weirder, bringing his own lunch when he’s selling lunch or buying from himself.) He rummages around a little, praying he hasn’t forgotten it, because packing lunch when you’re selling lunch isn’t quite as sad as also leaving it at home – and the attempt at distraction does turn out to work, because he doesn’t hear the footsteps, doesn’t look up until he’s found the tinfoil-wrapped sandwich underneath his emergency sweater and hears a voice say, “um, how much are the sandwiches?”, and when he finally does, it’s remarkably like a slap in the face.

_Oh._

He’s even more attractive from up close – Liam hadn’t quite been able to appreciate the perfect line of his nose and dark sweep of his eyelashes from fifteen feet away – but, thankfully, Liam has enough common sense left to stop himself from admiring it for too long or to panic because _oh, God, he’s a real person, he’s a real person and Liam’s just heard the sound of his voice._ He clamps down on all that, holding it back for a moment when the impression he gives is not absolutely vital, and instead says, “Er, sorry, what?”

Good enough. At least there are words coming out of his mouth.

The guy gives a soft laugh. Oh no. “Oh, uh, I was just, like, wondering how much the sandwiches were. You know. For reference.” His accent is thick, Northern, and his voice is lilting and wonderful; his right shoulder does this little shrug thing and then he pauses and adds, “Or maybe ‘cause I left my lunch at home. Could be too.”

“Oh, um.” Wait, how much _were_ the sandwiches? “It’s a quid. If you’re interested, of course, and not just looking.” He doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth, just that he needs to say something, _anything,_ and he breathes out in relief when the guy just laughs.

“Fine. I’m convinced, I think.” He digs around in the robe’s pocket for a second – Liam tries not to stare –, fishes out a single coin, and drops it on the table. His hands are dotted with tattoos, but for some reason the one that stands out is the tiny bird in flight inked on the base of his thumb. Liam collects himself after a moment and remembers to grab a napkin from the pile, scoops up and sandwich and hands it over to him, his heart stuttering because _their hands are only inches from each other_. And, just, the guy grins and gives a brief, “Thanks,” and Liam only knows that he can’t let him leave, not yet– so he opens his mouth again, and he should really try to control what he’s saying but right now it doesn’t seem to matter.

“I think they’re a bit– messy,” he says, and the guy doesn’t look like he’s leaving yet, which is good. “Sorry about that.”

The guy’s eyebrows raise slightly, and he inspects the sandwich thoughtfully before shrugging with frankly lovely ease. “‘S okay, mate,” he says, looking back at Liam, “it’s cool that it’s messy, I think. Makes for a more interesting sandwich, right?”

And maybe if anyone else had said it it’d be a stupidly pretentious line, but the guy’s complete earnestness means Liam frowns and considers it. “I’ve never thought of it like that, actually.” He looks down at the sandwiches. “But maybe you do have a point, yeah? I think I can see that.” He gestures to his tinfoil-wrapped lunch sitting all alone at the edge of the table. “Makes my lunch seem a lot more boring now.”

The guy grins. “You’re selling sandwiches and bringing your own lunch?”

Oh. Liam desperately, desperately hopes he has enough control over his face to keep from blushing. “That’s… yeah, that’s kind of embarrassing, isn’t it?” He doesn’t miss the way the guy’s eyes twinkle at that.

“Nah, mate. You’re an… ethical worker. It’s nice.” Liam isn’t sure whether he’s actually being teased or not, but the way the guy’s eyes are crinkling at the corners makes any possible teasing seem worthwhile. There’s a beat of silence, but he still isn’t turning away, and Liam is _so_ happy for it– and then, “Listen, I–”

That’s about as far as the guy gets, because suddenly there’s a voice somewhere and it’s saying _five minutes ‘til we start again, guys,_ and _crap._ “That’s probably my cue, then,” the guy says with an apologetic twist of the mouth. Liam wants to say something that’ll make him stay. Instead, all he manages is silence. “Thanks for, uh, the sandwich. I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

Liam snaps out of it. “Right. Yeah, yeah, I don’t think I’m actually allowed to, like, move from here all week, so.” He attempts a smile and a shrug. “You should probably eat that, though.”

The guy looks down. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I will.” He sort of– hovers for a second, like he’s not sure whether to say something or not, and Liam’s heart leaps into his throat; but all he gets is slightly awkward throat-clearing and a soft “bye, I guess,” that Liam manages to return before the guy does turn away. He’s left to stare at a very nice-looking retreating back.

Well. Well. He’s not sure what to think of this, and he’s quite possibly made an idiot of himself, but as he lets out a very deep breath it feels like he’s been holding the whole day the only very bright thought in his head is _everything has to start somewhere._

*

It hasn’t been a good afternoon.

Fine, he ended lunch break with high hopes, but three hours of sitting there with nothing to do except try not to ogle an attractive stranger (Liam hadn’t even asked for a name. How had he forgotten to ask for a name?) have worn down on said hopes a little and, really, the only thing he feels like doing right now is going home and whining to Louis about it. (And Louis will somehow manage to be both a twat and comfortingly understanding about it. Just like always.)

Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow he’ll manage to either be indifferent to everything around him or give the impression that he’s five times cooler than he is. Today, he’s pretty much given up on trying.

He’s outside already and Googling the nearest bus stop on his phone when he abruptly remembers that wait, wasn’t Louis supposed to pick him up? He dimly recalls something about having to get someone a birthday present and something about sex-toy shopping (he’s glad he can’t really remember) and squints at the pavement through the sun in his eyes, because… yeah, that’s definitely Louis’ car over there. So. It would probably make sense that he were somewhere around here.

He stands there for about two minutes before realizing he probably looks like an idiot and pulls up his contacts list, texting Louis _Hey where are youuu werent you supposed to pick me up_ and, after a few minutes pass and there’s been no reply, _I can see your car u know_ and _are you pretending you arent here cuz thats not very nice of you??_ After roughly ten minutes he gives up and calls, not particularly surprised when no one picks up, and finally resigns himself and starts looking around for somewhere to sit on.

And it’s quickly revealed that there’s none, but there _is_ something that makes Liam’s chest suddenly feel uncomfortably tight. Because coming out from the front door, hunched over his phone and wearing a clingy t-shirt and skinny jeans, is Attractive Model himself.

There’s an instant flash of panic, of _what do I do now_ – but the guy looks up, like he can feel Liam’s eyes on him, and Liam doesn’t have time to try and compose his face before the guy’s face breaks into a small, hesitant smile. He remembered him. Liam’s stomach does a backflip.

Before he notices, his feet are already shuffling towards the guy and there’s an unconscious answering smile on his face – he panics for a second over whether he’s being too forward, whether the guy actually wants Liam there, before the guy starts moving too and they’re sort of meeting halfway and it should be awkward but somehow it’s not.

“Hi,” Liam says, and then, without stopping for breath because he’s feeling brave, “you waiting for someone too?”

The guy blinks. “Er, yeah, actually.” Wow, his eyelashes are so long. “Actually, Harry told me he knows you? ‘M his flatmate.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ Liam has no clue what to do with that information, and also– _he mentioned Liam to Harry._ Or the other way round. Whatever. “…I think my flatmate and yours might have a thing going on, then.”

It takes the guy a fraction of a second, but the second he gets it a slow, sunburst smile spreads across his face. “Wait. No. Don't tell me you live with Louis.”

“The one and only,” Liam confirms, nodding. “Harry talk about him much?”

The guy groans. “Oh, God. That is quite possibly an understatement. Mostly ‘cause that’s _all_ he does.”

Oh, interesting. “Really? Something tells me he’d like to know that.”

He watches as the guy laughs briefly, the backs of his fingers coming up to rub at the stubble on his jaw. Liam wants to touch it just to see what it’d feel like. There’s a half-moment of silence then, and Liam almost thinks the conversation is over; then something slips into the guy’s eyes and he’s talking again. “Oh.” It’s almost sheepish. “Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Zayn.”

He holds his hand out, and Liam doesn’t have time to think about it before he’s taking it. It’s warm against his, even with the summer heat around them. Maybe it’s Liam’s imagination, but he looks into the guy’s – _Zayn’s_ – eyes and it’s like the contact is a moment too long– and then he realizes he still hasn’t said anything, so he hurriedly says, “Liam. Hi. Again,” and pulls his hand away, willing himself not to blush as his eyes stray to the ground bashfully.

He clears his throat. “Anyway, um,” he searches frantically for something he can talk about, “I know Harry’s in charge of this, right? You involved in it too?” Wait, no. “I mean, no, you obviously are, just– are you doing anything besides, like, modelling?” This is awful. He’s awful. Wasn’t he supposed to have small-talk skills? But what good is small talk anyway? It’s not like it’s particularly attractive. Why can’t he stop _thinking?_

He tries to focus on Zayn’s voice, because it’s soft and lovely and for some reason it calms Liam’s panicking. “Oh, no, I just model. I’m awful at the whole organizing thing, so.” He half-shrugs, his right shoulder rising and falling. “But I still help out, though. He never has to worry about finding male models for this stuff. Also,” he adds after a pause, “I don’t really charge him very much, you know, ‘cause he’s Harry and ‘cause I don’t think he can afford it anyway…”

See, not getting paid is something Liam can comment on. It’s safe, it’s relevant to the topic at hand, it’s not about art in any way– so, of course, what he blurts out after Zayn’s said that is something he’s been thinking about all day, but that he _knows_ it’s a bad idea to go into. It doesn’t seem to matter. “So… wait sorry, I know you probably get this a lot, but– what’s it like?”

Zayn blinks at him, then smiles. Good, he’s not annoyed. “It’s fine, actually, I don’t get it as often as you’d think. Think it makes people uncomfortable to ask.” He scratches at his beard again. “It’s just–”

“Li?”

And oh, yeah, what a great time for Louis to finally show up; Liam sighs and makes an apologetic face at Zayn, but then he turns towards the sound of Louis’ voice, and is mildly surprised to find he’s not the only one who’s just come out the door. Harry’s with him and they’re standing conspicuously close together, and a further glance at their disheveled hair and slightly flushed faces confirms all of Liam’s suspicions as to why he’s been kept waiting. (Not that he’s complaining about the consequences of being kept waiting, but.)

Louis headbutts him gently. “Hi.” There’s this infuriatingly satisfied smile on his face. “Sorry I’m late.”

Liam sighs, knows by now that it’s no use protesting. “Yeah, I bet you are.”

Louis tries to fix him with one of his Looks, but the fact that he can’t quite keep the smile off his face makes it far less effective than usual. “Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Liam’s about to reply, but a “Hey, Lou?” in Harry’s gravelly voice has the immediate effect of drawing every bit of Louis’ attention that wasn’t probably already on him. If Liam’s being honest, it’s tremendously endearing to see, even if it does spark the slightest bit of envy. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“‘Course,” Louis replies immediately, even though Liam knows for a fact he’s supposed to spend all day helping out at some drama workshop thing. Liam can almost see the actual hearts in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll. Text you. And stuff.”

Liam looks over at Harry. Hia answering “great” is fond, and his smile is huge. Liam’s gaze flicks to Zayn then, who meets his eye instantly and minutely arches an eyebrow as if to say, _see?_ Liam forgets to be nervous as he bites down on a grin, and it’s– it’s easy, in that moment, to feel like this might be the start of something, that tomorrow might bring something better after all. The grin lasts until Harry and Zayn have said their goodbyes and left (Harry looking back at Louis over his shoulder – his face says he just can’t help himself) and doesn’t fade away completely until he’s in Louis’ car and they’re out of eyesight. He tries to tell himself not to be such an idiot, that there’s no basis to get his hopes up for anything, but, frustratingly enough, it doesn’t really seem to work much.

He’s called Zayn. They’re on _speaking terms._ He doesn’t hate Liam. Liam can’t seem to stop his insides from feeling glowy.

*

Tuesday starts with equally clear skies, significantly higher spirits on Liam’s part and a fresh pile of sandwiches on his table.

Only this time they aren’t just lying there; Liam’s slightly early, and it appears he’s arrived in time to catch the sandwich-maker himself. (Like how you could talk to the pelican postman on Animal Crossing if you woke up early enough, he thinks absentmindedly.) He takes in a blond head of hair and a gigantic sandwich-stuffed Tupperware box before the guy whirls around and his face breaks into a grin.

“Hey. Liam, right?” He comes up to Liam and slaps his hand in a sort-of greeting. “Niall. You sell my sandwiches.” His accent is heavy, Irish; Liam could swear his eyes sparkle and he has this sort of easy demeanour that Liam likes instantly.

“I figured,” Liam says. “They’re being a bigger hit than I was expecting, actually.”

Niall laughs. “Fair ‘nuff. Don’t wanna sound like a prat, but Harry didn’t only hire me ‘cause I can get bread for free. I make a _mean_ sandwich.”

“Guess I’ll have to try them, then?” Liam replies, and Niall’s eyes widen for a second before he, very expressively, starts proclaiming his incredulity at Liam not even having tried one (“c’mon, mate! Not even _one?_ That’s far too much niceness to be good for you.”) By the time he leaves, Liam’s chin is mayonnaise-stained and his fingers are all crumby and he feels considerably fuller (they were _spectacular_ sandwiches, he has to admit); also, he now knows extensive details about Niall’s life, including his _shite job_ at the Sainsbury’s two blocks over and the grasshopper he found in his laundry yesterday. And– and apparently he’s good mates with both Harry and Zayn (from… yoga lessons two years ago?) and is delighted to discover Liam sort of knows them too. “We should all go out for pints sometime,” he advises Liam as he’s leaving. “I mean, then I can finally meet Harry’s boyfriend, and you seem like a cool guy so you can both come over, _brilliant._ ” And then he’s off, leaving Liam only slightly dazed and feeling significantly less like an outsider here. It’s a relief. He hopes he gets to thank Niall sometime (and the thought of going out with Louis and Harry and Zayn too makes him feel nothing except cool calm. Seriously. Calm. He panicked enough for a lifetime yesterday.)

And he ends up managing the cool calm, actually. Sort of.

It lasts for at least the first two hours. Liam is a routine person, always has been, and he can feel the beginnings of one here. The dissolving chatter, the barely-audible scratch of pencil on paper, the way the spots of light from the windows on the ground move as the sun changes position – they’re something he’s starting to know, something that doesn’t feel quite as foreign anymore. He finds he’s actually enjoying himself. Fine, the wish to be able to take part instead of watching from a corner is still an itch under his skin, but slowly, he’s starting to appreciate what everyone else is doing.

The actual pieces are being started today, from the look of it. It starts with just outlines as the models stay perfectly still this time, and it slowly starts growing from there; what Liam is most in awe of, though, is the sheer diversity of the art. There’s the occasional observation drawing, of course, but there’s also so much more, shapes and lines and figures that only barely resemble human beings in some cases. He watches each person work, the complete stillness and concentration in their features, and it’s amazing how much the expressions change from face to face. There’s carefully calculated and there’s apparent absolute spontaneity and there’s focus so intense it looks angry and there’s people who are actually _twitchy_ with how much they’re getting into it, like they just can’t hold themselves still, and it hits Liam then– how lucky he is to be able to witness this. Yesterday’s resentment feels so strange and far-off, because, like– he gets to spend a week watching actual professional artists, gets to sit there through the entire process, and there’s this _moment_ in which he’s absolutely sure there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

But then there’s the breaks, and that’s when the spell falls away.

Liam has an honesty policy, and he might not always uphold it, but the one thing he always tries very hard to do is at least be honest with himself. So, considering that: the spell falls away not in a snapping-out-of-trance sense, but mostly in a crashing-back-down-to-Earth one. Because, inevitably, the moment he emerges from his art daze he sort of falls back into his brain, and that’s also the moment when he unconsciously glances towards Zayn and ends up feeling, again, like he’s back in school and has a particularly vicious crush.

And, during those moments, it’s quite scarily like nothing even comes _close_ to mattering. He feels like he’s on autopilot the whole time, barely paying attention to the people who come by even as he’s chatting to them absentmindedly, because he’s so caught between his own unconscious nerves and just staring. Staring because Zayn’s beautiful, there’s no denying it, and God, even his hand gestures are mesmerizing, but also because it’s the bravest thing he feels like he can do, and because the one time he manages to catch Zayn’s eye and not look away immediately he gives Liam such a lovely smile that all the panic in his gut is worth it.

And then the art starts again, and Liam isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

But, as lunch break draws near, losing himself in _just watching_ gets more and more difficult, much to his frustration. He can’t help it; unwittingly, his mind starts to wander, his careful not-staring-at-Zayn-while-he’s-modelling rule (he doesn’t exactly know why it’s there, only that it feels important) starts to crumble, and before he knows it his eyes are passing over Zayn’s dark ones and he’s wondering what he’s thinking about, how he manages to hold himself so still, if he’s ever felt ashamed or embarrassed to have people draw him while he’s naked or if he’s always been this steadily unabashed. He wants to _know,_ is the thing, not just stare; he wants to know if he’s as interesting on the inside as he looks like from the outside and if he’s caring or quiet or selfless or spontaneous or all of it and he wants to know if there’s any possible way Liam could find out. Actually, he wants to know so much it feels vaguely invasive, so he keeps his head down and doesn’t, does _not,_ think about it, at least until lunch break finally starts and after ten minutes he can’t hold himself back anymore so he cautiously looks up in Zayn’s direction and Zayn catches his eye surprisingly fast and as soon as he does he’s walking towards Liam’s table and oh no but also _finally._

And. “Hi,” Liam says, his voice thankfully steady.

“Hey,” Zayn says back, and it’s good, easy and natural in a way Liam can’t quite place. “I just, um, your sandwiches are so good I couldn’t resist coming back for more. If it’s not too much trouble.” The corner of his lip quirks as he slides a pound coin onto the table.

Liam repeats the sandwich process he knows by heart already – napkin, scooping one up, handing it over – and drops it in Zayn’s hand. Their fingers almost, almost brush as Liam says, “Here you go”; to try to distract himself from it, he picks the coin off the table and holds it in his palm for a moment. His fingers close around it on instinct. Dimly, he notices it’s faintly warm from Zayn’s hand, like he’s been holding it for a while, and finally drops it in the money box, fighting the irrational urge to keep it in his hand and soak up the rest of Zayn’s body heat. (It’d be creepy. And also stealing.)

He blinks back into reality. Zayn, for whatever reason, doesn’t look like he’s leaving, so Liam takes advantage of it and casually says, “There’s such a cool atmosphere in here. ‘S it always like this?”

Zayn frowns thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think so. To a degree, at least. There’s just this sort of… he rubs at his chin, “companionship when this many artists get together, y’know? There’s a really good vibe, it’s great.” He hums. “Although this one’s Harry’s, so it’s, like, four times that. You know I’ve never been to a convention where there’s someone selling lunch?”

Liam tries not to dwell on the fact that that’s the most words he’s heard Zayn say put together so far. “Oh? So it’s thanks to Harry that my job right now actually exists, then?” Even though technically he’s doing this of his own free will, but. Whatever. “Have you guys known each other for long, anyway?”

It turns out Zayn and Harry met on the first day of art school and stuck together since then. Even when they left. They thought school was _hindering their creative process_ and promptly dropped out and moved in together to try and become Actual Artists, with mixed results. (“But, like, we both like our day jobs, so it’s okay.”) Zayn works at a local library, Harry at a bakery a few streets over; they’re absolute best mates and Zayn describes Harry as “one of the most genuine and inspiring people I’ve ever met” in a tone that suggests he’s not exaggerating even the slightest bit. Actually, if it weren’t for the whole Harry and Louis thing, Liam might possibly have been just a bit jealous. (And if he actually is, it’s because he wants to know Zayn that well, too– wants to know he and Liam are talking right now because they’re mates and not just because there’s nothing else to do here.)

And, well– once Zayn has seemingly exhausted the topic of Harry and Liam’s volunteered some choice details about living with Louis (he once set up an orgy in their living room; Liam’s convinced his bedroom is a nuclear warzone; he’s probably the person who knows Liam best in the world apart from his mum) there’s a brief silence. Zayn has this look on his face, though, like he’s considering whether to say something or not. Liam blinks, trying to look encouraging and receptive.

“I’ve been thinking,” Zayn starts, looking unusually focused, “about, like, what you asked me yesterday? I mean,” he rubs at his jaw, “it’s dumb, but, yeah. Like, I told you I went to art school, right, ‘cause I used to want to be an artist– but modelling is easier for me and it pays better, yeah?” Liam nods. He has no idea why Zayn’s choosing to share all this, but there’s no way he’s doing anything but sitting there and paying as much attention as is humanely possible. “And, like, to answer your question– it does take some getting used to, and I used to think… that it was just, like, a second day job. But, yeah, I’ve been thinking, and… it’s much more than that, really. I like it. Even if it means I never have time for my art anymore, I like it.” He blinks at Liam then, and Liam realizes this is the most anxious he’s ever seen Zayn look. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I’ll just, um–” Is he _blushing?_

Before Liam notices, he’s unconsciously reaching out his hand and touching Zayn’s forearm before he realizes what he’s doing and pulls back immediately. But Zayn’s already stopped talking and is looking at Liam with an expression Liam can’t quite place. Liam wants to die. There’s an apology on his lips instantly, but wait, an apology will just bring more attention to what he’s just done, won’t it?

He clears his throat, trying to act normal (it really shouldn’t be this much of a challenge). “Oh, no, it’s…” He means to say _fine,_ but the word dies as soon as the next question surges up from somewhere inside his throat. “What does it feel like?”

He thinks of how all the models hold themselves when he says it, and how they look completely untouchable with every inch of their bodies exposed, and how Liam’s insides have twisted up every time Zayn’s met his eyes while he’s modelling. Zayn looks at him curiously, because Liam’s probably being weird, and for a second Liam thinks he isn’t actually going to answer. Then his mouth opens, and Liam stops focusing on everything that isn’t his voice.

“It’s… not like anything else I’ve ever done, really. It’s just,” he gestures vaguely with his hands, “it’s just, you think you can imagine what it’s gonna be like, right? And then you’re out there and everyone’s just looking at you with this really focused look on their faces and you…” He trails off. “It was kind of scary, you know, at first. And uncomfortable. But, like… I think I like that even though I’m not the one who’s drawing, I’m still doing _something,_ right? And it’s something different, but it’s something that’s still there.” He shrugs. Liam notices his thumb rubbing along the tiny bird tattoo. It’s somehow tremendously endearing.

So he looks up at Zayn’s face, who seems to be slightly uncomfortable (Liam’s still marvelling at it, at how someone who can come off as so completely unabashed in situations that would make Liam feel unbelievably self-conscious seems to be so hesitant to open up to people – or to him) but still meets his eyes, and when he does it’s like something clicks, something just settles itself and suddenly everything feels ten times easier. So when Liam says “That sounds so interesting,” because it’s the truth and because it feels like the right thing to say, Zayn gets this look in his eyes like maybe he believes him and it’s like– like a small step towards trust, perhaps, and Liam couldn’t explain it if he tried but for a moment he feels like he’s floating, up and up and up and up.

*

And from there, it’s like a dam has broken.

It’s just– when he thinks about it, he finds it hard to think of someone he’s gotten along with so well this fast. He’s never been that kind of guy, never one to leave a party having made about thirty new friends like certain other people, but this– this is new, and sort of exciting, and Liam actually feels like it should scare him (and maybe it does, just a little) but mostly he just feels so lucky that it’s something he gets to have. And, just. With _Zayn._

(Zayn who has three sisters and is from Bradford and part Pakistani; Zayn who likes R’n’B and nearly always carries a book around wherever he goes, Zayn who got his first tattoo when he was seventeen and has recurring dreams about water and hates chocolate on popcorn and runs his fingernails along his stubble when he gets thoughtful, Zayn who is smarter than Liam could ever hope to be and infinitely caring and whose entire face lights up when he smiles and who’s come by Liam’s table every single break since they started talking.)

Because, like, Liam is possibly in trouble.

It’s one thing that he’s attracted to Zayn – he can freely admit that to himself, has been since day one, because Zayn is very very fit and wears no clothes a lot of the time and Liam has eyes – but now he can feel there’s something else, something that’s not quite as easy to put a name to and something far more unsettling. And, well, it’s something like this:

When Zayn grazes Liam’s hand with his own once, Liam catches himself five minutes later still clutching his own hand, chasing the phantom contact. When they get around to talking about Marvel during a lunch break and it turns out Zayn’s possibly a bigger comic book nerd than he is, Liam spends the whole time continually failing to notice there’s people waiting to buy a sandwich right in front of his face, much to his embarrassment. Every time Zayn happens to say his name, his stomach doesn’t do a little twist of disbelief anymore, but feels warm and glowing instead; he finds himself letting go of his constant worry when he’s around Zayn, replacing it with an easy, tingling feeling. It’s not just that Liam wants to trace his fingers over every line of Zayn’s tattoos; now, he thinks he’d also want to hear the stories behind them, to listen to Zayn explain every single one of them. And it should be overwhelming, shouldn’t it, to want so much in so little time, but Liam’s starting to realize that when it comes to Zayn things never quite happen like he expects them to.

So– so it’s both things, so he has to dig his nails into his palm every time he sneaks a glance while Zayn is modelling (which, worryingly, is happening more and more often), so sometimes he just wants to hide inside Zayn’s head and stay there forever. And he’s losing control over both parts, actually, and it’s like they’re getting closer and closer together and if they ever get so close they overlap, Liam has no clue what’s going to happen.

He should do something about it. 

He knows this; rationally, he knows that shutting up about… about all this isn’t going to get him anywhere, that if he wants something, _anything_ to happen he can’t just wait for it to fall out of the sky. He’s never been the most adept at flirting, but he knows the one thing he’s got going for him is that he’s never been subtle at all, so there’s never any mistaking his interest. But now… now even the thought of Zayn finding out what Liam thinks when he looks at him makes Liam feel slightly nauseous.

It’s first-day nerves all over again, isn’t it? He felt like an outsider watching everyone draw and he feels like an outsider when he looks at Zayn and thinks about touching him. It’s not something _meant_ for him, is all, it’s like not being good enough to carry on with art even if he found it fascinating, because it’s okay for him to think about it and look all he likes, but any further involvement Liam is sure to mess up.

When he thinks of Zayn he pictures a tattooed attractive stranger beside him, someone who’s beautiful and arty and spontaneous and sticks paintbrushes in their hair. (Even a girl, who knows? Somehow, they’ve never gotten around to discussing that.) Definitely not someone like Liam, who studies business because he can’t think of anything better to do and can’t bring himself to say no to selling sandwiches for no pay. It’s not self-pity, really, because he does think well enough of himself, knows where his strong points lie; it’s more like self-awareness, because he knows for a fact that wherever he belongs (he’s still figuring that one out) it most definitely isn’t here. (Or with Zayn. Especially not with Zayn.)

*

It slips out on Thursday afternoon. It should be meaningless, a throwaway line, and maybe for Zayn it is, but for Liam it feels like, in a moment, he’s left himself horribly, horribly exposed.

It starts out with a conversation topic it’d probably have been a good idea to avoid.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to be good at art.”

Zayn, who is sitting on the edge of Liam’s table, crossed ankles swinging back and forth, raises his eyebrows in what Liam knows to be genuine interest. “Yeah?”

Liam lays his cheek down on his palm. “Yeah. I mean, to tell the truth, when I was little I didn’t really mind being rubbish at it ‘cause I liked it so much, but, just.” He shrugs. “It would’ve been nice to be good enough to carry on with it, though. Like, I wanted to take the GCSE but my teacher told me I was probably gonna fail and I should choose something different, so.” He picks at a hangnail, feeling vaguely that maybe that was more information than was strictly necessary.

Zayn frowns. “Why didn’t you just carry on with it outside of school, then?”

“Didn’t have the time,” Liam replies. Actually, he’d told himself he would, after he finished his exams, but somehow he never really got around to it. “Or the skill. Or the materials, actually.”

A little crease appears between Zayn’s eyebrows. “That sucks.” He stays in silence for a moment. Liam waits. “I mean, it made you happy, right? Why do we force people to stop doing things that make them happy?” Quietly, then, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Liam feels a rush of unexplained warmth at that. “It’s okay. I might still do something this summer. This is being a very inspiring week.” The words don’t quite sound the same in his mouth as they did in his head, and he wishes he could hastily add– he doesn’t _know,_ something that makes him sound less weird and more like he’s been inspired by, like, the art. Not Zayn. Even if it’s a little bit of both. He doesn’t want _Zayn_ to know that.

But Zayn just grins at him. “That’s nice to know.”

Liam laughs. “Everyone hanging around painting all the time, you know? Makes you want to start doing it yourself.”

“I think you should.” Liam watches his hand curl around the edges of the table, wants to touch it so badly he slips his own hand between his legs and the chair he’s sitting on just in case. Zayn cocks his head towards him. “Do what makes you feel good. What’s the point otherwise?”

He makes it sound so simple, so logical. Liam finds himself discarding all the reasons why he thought quitting art would be a sensible idea. It’s one of the things he’s learning about Zayn (or about himself, maybe) – being with him makes Liam feel a little bit younger, a little bit crazier, like he could throw all his carefully constructed plans away if he listened to Zayn talk for long enough. 

He’s still so caught up in his fascination with this wonderful person that it makes him thoughtless. Or reckless. Or both.

“I think I’d want to paint you if I could.”

Which is true. Its what he’s wanted to do ever since he saw him – find a way to take the lines of his body, the hair disappearing at the back of his neck, the steadiness in his eyes, and capture them on paper, because it feels like something that’s meant to be drawn and painted and looked at and Liam has this irrational wish to be the one who gets to do that. But, of course, there’s a big difference between privately thinking it and saying it out loud.

And as soon as the words are out, he wishes frantically for a way to pull them back in, to grab them out of the air and stuff them back in his mouth where they’re safe. But he can’t, of course he can’t, so he just sits there like an idiot, unable to say anything else that could distract Zayn from what he’s just said, feeling his face heat up so much it feels like it could catch fire. That’s it, he’s screwed it, if Zayn didn’t think he was being weird before he definitely does now–

“Really?”

Liam chances a look. Unbelievably, Zayn doesn’t look confused, or freaked out, or like he’s about to look at Liam in disgust and then leave. Instead, he looks… is he _smiling?_ Yes, that’s the beginning of one, the corners of his lips quirking up, eyes sparkling, and Liam knows it’s not over yet but he feels so grateful he could cry.

Right. He should say something, then. “Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes dropping down to where his fingernail is scratching at the table nervously. They dart back up almost immediately, because even though it’s terrifying he has to know Zayn’s reaction to that.

Which is… an even bigger smile? Liam feels like his heartbeat is so loud it’s choking him. This doesn’t– this _can’t_ mean anything, he has to be sure of that, because he’s far too familiar with the horrible feeling of having his hopes crushed. But as he watches the smile spread on Zayn’s face, as he hears him say, “Why don’t you, then?”, as he feels his own face duck down as he grins back, he finds it very, very hard to remind himself of it.

He could kiss Zayn now, he realizes, and his hands almost start shaking at the thought. It’d be easy; he could do it before he had time to think about it, stand up from the chair and close the space between them and find out what Zayn’s lips feel like, if he’d open them for Liam’s tongue or bite at his bottom lip or lick into Liam’s mouth until Liam could feel his tongue against his teeth. He could kiss Zayn now and stop wondering and hoping and telling himself not to hope; he could kiss Zayn now and tear away the doubt that’s lodged in his chest and won’t go away.

He could. But he’s never felt less brave than he does in this moment, and even the thought of touching Zayn makes him feel small and insignificant. He can watch. He’s not allowed to do anything more. It’s like he’s drawn himself lines all around Zayn, and he doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he dared to cross them.

*

Later that day, while everyone’s busy working and modelling and supervising, Liam finds a pen at the bottom of his bag and fishes an old receipt out of his pocket. He tries to be subtle about it, because he doesn’t want anyone noticing, but loses himself in what he’s doing so fast it’s not even a thought five minutes later.

This much he can do.

When he finishes, there’s a human-shaped ink scrawl on the back of the receipt and a tiny Z jotted down just below it. He puts the pen down, looks at his work for a moment, and then crumples it up and stuffs it into his pocket again, tiny ink stains on his hands and teeth biting down on a smile.

*

He’s just gotten home on Thursday afternoon (after having hung back for at least half an hour with Zayn after closing up, continuing the conversation about Thor versus Loki that he just couldn’t bring himself to walk away from – perfectly normal friend behaviour and he knows it) and tossed his keys into the ugly little ceramic dish they keep them in when it hits him.

Thursday afternoon. Okay. He’s known that it’s Thursday the whole day, but why is this the first time he realizes the actual full implications of it?

Because, of course, he’s only at the convention for a week because it _lasts_ for a week, and tomorrow’s Friday, which means it’s the last day, and the sudden desperate wish for it not to end shocks him with how strong it is.

Actually, it sort of feels like the general atmosphere on the last days of an end-of-year school trip. You’d have made friends with half the kids in your year that you’d never talked to before, but everyone knew perfectly well that it’d all disappear as soon as you got back and that the only contact you’d have with these people at school would be the occasional “hi” passing each other in the hallways. And, of course, that’s what always happened.

It’s stupid, because he’s not fifteen anymore and if he wants to keep in touch with someone he can do it perfectly well himself. But he can’t shake off the feeling that it won’t be the same after this; it’s like there’s some kind of balance right now, and it’s something Liam really, really doesn’t want to break.

And he wants to smack himself because it’s all because of Zayn, of course it is, and usually thinking like this makes Liam feel weird and invasive but now he just feels helpless.

It’s probably for the best. He shouldn’t even try to see Zayn again after this. After all, Liam’s already established he really doesn’t have a chance (he’s not brave enough, he’ll never be brave enough, and it’s easier just to give p than to make things worse). He can let go. It’s been four days. He can just let go.

He lowers himself into the sofa, staring blankly at the empty TV screen, nibbling at his knuckle. Okay. Okay, he can just, just stop thinking. It’s not like it ever helps.

And then there’s a head hanging upside-down off the back of the sofa. “Hi,” comes Louis’ voice, strained from the angle his neck is at. “Bad day?”

Liam sighs, feeling like he’s deflating, because _of course_ Louis can tell he’s off just from an upside-down glance at his face. “Not really, no.”

“Right.” Louis makes a concentrated face for a moment and then tugs himself up, does a wiggly half-backflip over the sofa and falls right on Liam’s lap. Liam tries to shove him off, but Louis only flings his arms around his neck and clings tighter. 

Liam relents. “Fine,” he says resignedly. “What do you want?”

Louis’ eyes widen in exaggerated disbelief. “Me? Who says I want something? I just want a cuddle from the person I live with every once in a while. Can’t see what’s so wrong with that.” He squishes his face into Liam’s neck to prove his point. “You should know by now I don’t care about your well-being at _all._ ”

After a moment, Liam relaxes into the hug. “It’s just,” he mumbles. “It’s stupid.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more and then closes it again, because he doesn’t actually _want_ to and he might as well make Louis make a bigger effort (because he’ll coax it out of him eventually. He always does).

Louis elbows him. “Is it? Fine. You know you have to tell me now, right? Stupid is my favourite.”

Right. Liam can feel himself giving in. He buries his face in Louis’ shoulder because he really doesn’t want to look Louis in the eye for this. “Just– remember the guy I told you about? Zayn?” His voice is muffled by Louis’ t-shirt, but he cringes at himself as he hears his own voice in his ears. “He’s… he’s just really fit, right, and I think I _like_ him, and I really don’t know what to do.”

Louis’ head snaps up, almost whacking Liam in the face. “Oh! I remember him! That Greek god of a person Harry lives with?”

Liam shoves his arm, face flaring. “Yeah. Shut up.”

“Oh, alright, then. Can’t say I blame you, really, I’d be all over that if I weren’t–” Liam elbows him in the ribs and Louis smacks his hand right back. “Ow. Shut up, I’m trying to be honest here. But. Yeah, I get your point, he’s _really_ fit, but– you’re Liam! Come on! Is there a heart your sweet little face and bulging biceps can’t win over?” He pinches Liam’s cheeks for extra effect.

“Shut up, Lou.” Liam wonders when his vocabulary reduced itself to those three words. “He’s just– he’s just really, like, _arty,_ okay? And I’m just me, so.” He bites at a hangnail. “I’m not what arty people go for.”

Louis shrugs. “Fine, whatever.” He’s silent for long enough that Liam looks up at him curiously, and it looks like he’s been waiting for him to, because he raises his eyebrows and adds, “S’pose I don’t have to tell you that Harry said he’s only ever dated one person he met through art, then.”

“What?” _What?_ “Since when do you know Zayn’s entire dating history?” How long has Louis been holding back that information for? And then he notices something else that sidetracks him completely. “Wait, _person?_ ”

“Yep.” Louis looks incredibly smug. “He didn’t specify because he’s _Harry,_ but hey, means you might have a chance and everything.” He grins a little wickedly. “Surprisingly enough.”

Liam shoves him playfully, but hopes he can still feel the underlying gratitude behind it all. Because Louis might come off as a twat sometimes, but– he knew, knew before Liam told him, because he’s positive he knows about the people Zayn’s dated not because Harry’s ever mentioned it offhandedly, but because Louis’ asked. And ten minutes ago, he’s have laughed if someone had told him he had a chance with Zayn, but– it’s Louis, and Louis can make the craziest things sound like absolute fact, and maybe he’ll never see Zayn again after tomorrow but he knows Louis will always be there, and that– it doesn’t make things okay, not really, but it does make them better, and that’s all he can ask for right now.

*

Rationally, Liam knows it’s impossible, but it looks like that doesn’t particularly matter right now, because– because Zayn, unbelievably, seems to be getting even more attractive with every day Liam spends in here.

There’s no way he can explain it. There’s no way he can even think about trying to explain it, not like this, not when Zayn’s right there and looking so… so _Zayn_ but somehow making Liam’s lungs squeeze tighter every day.

(Perhaps it’s the shock of him still being there the next morning, moving and breathing and so much more than the image of him Liam walks away with in the afternoon. Perhaps. These are things to think about when he lies in bed at night unable to get his thoughts to slow down – but not now, not with Zayn right in front of him, not with the knowledge that whatever happens this is the last day of this.)

And it’s awful, because Liam can’t stop himself from staring. He’s not usually like this, because watching Zayn while he’s modelling is weird – in a way, it’s almost like he’s someone else, someone shameless and godlike and ten times as unreachable – but every once in a while, while Liam’s looking somewhere else, his mind will whisper _it’s the last day_ and his eyes will snap back to Zayn’s face of their own accord.

There are so many lovely things about Zayn’s body he doesn’t think he can count them all. There’s his eyelashes, which will sometimes make Liam get distracted and trail off in the middle of a sentence; there’s the shaved-off sides of his head that he’s sometimes imagined running his fingers over; there’s his hands and his elegant, tattooed wrists and the backs of his knees and the trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button that’s the lowest Liam will allow himself to look. But today – he has no idea why – today, he’s particularly fascinated with the back of Zayn’s neck, the straight proud lines of it, the tattoo sneaking up from his upper back and peeking into what could already be considered as neck above it.

So– it seems like a logical thing in that moment, really, how Liam’s hands move to find the tiny notepad he now has stored in his bag _just in case._ They find and uncap the pen all on their own too, and– and it’s incredible how Liam only has to place it on the paper and he’ll immediately stop thinking.

His hand makes bold strokes that seem to say _I’m not here to be pretty_ and his eyes can only flick to the paper, to Zayn, to the paper like nothing else actually exists right now. He breathes hard and the pen skids over the paper again, back and forth back and forth, creating tiny black furrows on the white, and when it’s finally still Liam allows himself to drop it, lift his head up from where it’s inches away from the tabletop and look.

He lets out a breath.

It’s– it’s not actually that bad. It’s clumsy and unpolished and his drawing skills still aren’t all that good, but… Liam traces the lines with a finger, feeling the ridges he made under his touch. He likes what those mean. He likes them because they’re focused and they’re passionate and most of all because they match how he’s feeling inside, the way he sometimes looks at Zayn from here and thinks and feels so many different things it’s like he’s going to explode somehow condensed and molded into the simple lines he made.

His fingers twitch for a second, his stomach jumps in excitement and he doesn’t need to think about it before he’s flipping to a fresh page and picking the pen up again, feeling, for a second, more powerful than he’s done in _ages._

*

Six hours and thirty-two drawings later, Liam feels like he could fly.

(They’re not _all_ about Zayn. There’s some of the pretty way the hair of the girl to his right falls over his shoulders and some of the slanting angle of the sunlight and some of the skyline visible just outside the window. But yes, the rest of them are all of Zayn, or at least Zayn-inspired. Liam feels too embarrassed to count them.)

There’s hands splayed out on the white sheet all the models pose on top of and there’s elbows and biceps and kneecaps and crude eyelashes. There’s more vague stuff too, like a scrawled flock of birds when he’d thought of the tattoo on his hand and a jumble of horizontal lines because for some reason he’d pictures the sea when he’d looked at Zayn. He doesn’t think they technically count as good drawings, but– but they’re there. And they’ve made Liam feel things. And that’s what matters.

What’s harder to explain to himself, though, is why he’s drawn Zayn so many times over. Fine, he sort of wants to kiss him, and maybe that influenced the one he drew of his jaw and lips; but, on the whole, it feels like something slightly different. He didn’t draw the sea while he was thinking about Zayn’s abs. In fact, his more abstract ones came after the breaks, after Zayn had come up to his table and bought a sandwich like always and talked to him in that voice and left Liam feeling both inadequate and tingly. Like always.

He doesn’t quite understand, but he’ll take it. Especially when it pushes him to make stuff. He’s excited, ridiculously enough, and all the thoughts that had swarmed around his head last night are still there but they can’t get to him like they’ve spent almost a week doing.

Somehow, he’s even managed to sort-of forget his last-day panic. If this is what drawing does to him… he can’t imagine the possibilities this could open.

He feels brave.

Which is why, as five o’clock ticks nearer, he doesn’t feel like he’s trying to hold on to something anymore, but like anything could happen after this. He watches people put final touches on their paintings, tiny brushstrokes of light and dark; an odd thrill flits through him when he thinks of seeing them all finished. The finality he’d imagined would be in his thoughts is nowhere to be found. Now, the only thing he feels like doing is watching it end and thinking about what could come after.

He doesn’t have a clue, he realizes, and somehow that makes it even better.

Three minutes are left, then one, then none. The timer rings. Paintbrushes are put down; models relax out of their poses, conversation erupts in the air; Liam should feel like an outsider because he has nothing to celebrate but instead he feels strangely at ease.

The next few things are a bit of a blur when he thinks of them afterwards. Someone notices he’s there, and he’s pulled out of his chair by a smiling blue-paint-splattered girl (wow, the sandwiches must have been more popular than he’d thought) and into the group hug. Laughter rings in his ears, bodies press up on him from all around – but the one thing he remembers perfectly clearly is the bit that goes right afterwards. Because when the hug breaks up Liam’s eyes find Zayn a little to his left and Zayn looks up and is immediately moving towards him; there’s a massive smile on his face and his tongue is doing that thing where it peeks out from under his teeth and Liam wants to kiss him but instead he finds himself being pulled in by Zayn’s arms and right against his body, a hug just for the two of them. Liam– Liam feels like he should be hyperventilating but he has _Zayn_ pressed against him everywhere (and wearing _a loose robe and nothing else_ ) and his mind just completely shuts down. He’s quick enough to react, his arms coming up to grip at Zayn’s back, and the only thing he can do for the next second is feel Zayn’s stubble against his neck and his hands actually touching Liam’s skin and breathe him in.

When they break apart, Zayn’s smile is softer and, absurdly, Liam thinks that if none of the people around them were here it’d feel exactly the same. Maybe _Zayn and Liam_ will never be a thing, but– but, in a fleeting moment, he thinks that if it’s always like this between them, he might not mind so much.

*

(unknown number):

19/07, 22:36  
hi this is Zayn ! x

22:36  
asked Harry for your number hope thats okay aha :)

22:37  
anyway just wanted to know if you were coming tomorrow? :) x

 

(me):

22:38  
Hi Zayn!!

22:39  
I didn’t know harry had my number haha is it weird we’ve been talking for days but havent texted? Cos it feels a little weird ha

22:41  
I mightttt be coming tomorrow even tho id probably give u a better answer if I knew what was happening ha

 

(Zayn):

22:42  
oh sorry I thought you knew!

22:43  
Harry & Niall said you&Louis were coming to see the finished stuff tomorrow at five?

 

“Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you telling me you included me in plans and _didn’t tell me about them?_ ”

There’s silence, a scuffling, and Louis’ head pokes out of his bedroom door. “Uh, maybe?” Before Liam can say anything, though, Louis’ gaze falls to the phone in Liam’s hand and his face lights up. “Ooh, is that who I think it is?”

“Don’t,” Liam pleads.

It’s too late. Louis is looking _extremely_ happy about this. Liam has learned not to trust that look. “Don’t what? I’m not doing anything, am I?” The glint in his eye suggests otherwise. “Look at me. The picture of passive indifference. What’s the opposite of matchmaker? Because that’s what they call me, you know…” His voice trails away, the last part muffled by his bedroom door shutting behind him.

Liam should be wary of this. Liam should be wary of this, but there’s a text from Zayn sitting unanswered in his inbox.

(me):

22:50  
Sorry yes I am but sometimes my flatmate forgets to inform me of the things im supposed to be going to

 

He sends it, reads it over, thinks for a moment, and pulls up another blank text.

 

22:52  
also btw never believe anything he tells you haha

 

Zayn’s answering _“aha thanks for the warning ill see you tomorrow then ?? x”_ is swift, and Liam is relieved he doesn’t ask any questions as to what exactly Louis says that he shouldn’t believe. Liam is grateful.

 _Yep you’ll see me tomorrow!_ he types, worries it might sound too self-centered, hits send anyway, and takes a deep breath. So. Tomorrow, looking at an exhibition of pictures of Zayn naked, just the five of them. Worse things have happened. He takes a moment to briefly hope none of them _do._

*

This is not good. This is not good at _all._

It’s not only that, due to a bus-missing and bird-shitting incident, he’s more than twenty minutes late. It’s not only that he feels awful when he arrives late under normal circumstances, let alone now. No, those are really minor factors, because right now he’s hiding behind a phone box and hoping and praying that his eyes are lying to him. Because, right there in front of the studio, where _the five of them were supposed to have met up twenty minutes ago,_ is Zayn, wearing dark skinny jeans and a grey scoop-neck t-shirt that looks unbelievably good on him, his chest tattoos peeking out from under the neckline. _Only_ Zayn.

Liam is not panicking. Liam is most definitely not panicking.

He tries not to jump to conclusions, but he recalls Louis’ plotting-something face yesterday and it’s suddenly very, very hard to consider that this might be anything other than his doing. (He’d left the flat this morning with no explanation and a casual _Haz and I will be there at five, yeah?_ thrown over his shoulder. Liam hadn’t thought it suspicious at the time.) Still, Liam offers him the benefit of doubt and shoots him a text, _where are you????_ (his hands are so shaky it takes him a full minute to type three words). Almost immediately, his screen lights up again, and– oh. _Oh._ He should trust his gut feelings more often.

 _“have fun ;) ;)))))”_ the text reads.

_Louis_

_LOUIS_

_PLEASE TELL ME UR NOT DOING THIS TO ME_

Liam is– Liam is going to _murder_ him.

And there’s no backing out now, is there? He can’t– he can’t just leave Zayn standing there alone when he’s hidden behind a phone box fifteen feet away. He can do this. That’s right, he can carefully come out of his hiding place, walk up to Zayn when he’s not looking his way, pretend his best mate didn’t just try (and succeed?) to set him up on a date with the guy he’s been trying not to stare at for a week–

“Um, hi?” Liam says. He hopes the way it sounds small and pathetic is all in his head.

Zayn smiles his tongue-under-teeth smile. Liam is in trouble. “Oh, hi. Nice to see someone turned up.” He doesn’t even call Liam out on being late. Liam has no clue how he’s supposed to handle the afternoon. “I take it Louis isn’t gonna show up either?”

“Nope. He, um,” it shouldn’t be this hard to come up with an acceptable lie, “something came up. Harry and Niall aren’t coming, then?” He knows the answer to that already. Slowly, he can feel his stomach sinking.

“Nah. None of them’ve actually said why, but y’know.” Liam does not know. “Some other day, I guess. ‘S it just you and me, then?”

Liam grins, because that seems like the right thing to do even with the nerves coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Just you and me.”

*

The thing, though, about being around Zayn is that it feels like such a natural thing that Liam doesn’t get the chance to overthink or panic or even get nervous. Sure, it happens when he’s at home and he thinks of him, and it happens when he’s close but his attention isn’t really on Liam – but then, once he’s looking Liam in the eye or they’ve been talking for more than two minutes, Liam finds himself not even having to think things over before he says them. It’s nice, and oddly freeing, and one of the reasons why Liam sometimes wishes he could stay in his presence forever. It’s sort of like being drunk, only it all comes from being with someone else, which. Well. He tries not to think about how rare it is for that to happen to him.

Today is no exception.

The fact that this may or may not be a sort-of date doesn’t make the slightest difference. Liam follows Zayn around the studio and Zayn sometimes volunteers a little bit of info on a particular piece (“look, that technique’s called impasto – you know, like the one Van Gogh used?”; “that is _spectacular_ foreshortening”; “I know for a fact this one was done with a box of six watercolours like the ones they use in primary school”) and every comment Liam wants to make he’ll turn around and say it, just like that, and Zayn will just grin at him and never make him feel stupid even though Liam knows he could.

He doesn’t leave at any point, either. Liam is so grateful for that.

There’s six paintings of Zayn altogether, and none of them look a thing like each other but they have something similar all the same that probably has to do with Zayn himself. Like the first time he saw Zayn model, he struggles to put a word to it. Calm, maybe? Steadiness? He doesn’t really know, but he can sense _something_ there; and anyway, after a while he becomes less focused on the art itself and more on Zayn’s reaction to it. He’ll look at each painting for a while, face completely still, and then it’ll be like a switch has been flipped and he’ll get this smile on his face and a look in his eyes that’s halfway between soft and proud. Liam is reminded of what he said that one time – _“I like that even though I’m not the one who’s drawing, I’m still doing something, right?”_ – and he thinks he gets it, sort of. Zayn hasn’t painted a single one of these, but there’s something in all of them that’s so inexplicably _Zayn_ that he doesn’t need to paint to bring something to the art. He wonders, briefly, if that’s what makes a good model.

He thinks for a moment about letting Zayn see the drawings he’s done and his fingertips get prickly.

They’ve navigated almost the whole of the studio now, Zayn pausing occasionally to greet some of the people they come across and also introducing Liam (even though Liam’s not sure why he’d need to be introduced to artists and agents and the odd model, he appreciates it all the same) and now it looks like they’ve almost reached the end of it. Liam follows behind Zayn as they approach what looks like the only painting they haven’t seen yet, and as they get closer and closer Liam starts to make it out more clearly and– oh.

It’s another one of Zayn, painted in shades of blue, the light touching his left side all fragmented and reminding Liam vaguely of a kaleidoscope. Zayn’s face is in profile, at a different angle than all the other ones of him they’ve seen, and his eyelashes are long and dark blue and leave a shadow on his face and the bare line of his shoulders is strong and elegant at the same time and Liam knows nothing about art but it’s hands-down the best one they’ve seen all afternoon.

He turns towards Zayn to find Zayn’s already looking at him, not at the painting. For a second, Liam is speechless at this– then he manages to pick up the pieces of what he was going to say and half-stutter, “Zayn, this one is, it’s– it’s amazing.”

The corners of Zayn’s lips quirk up. “You really think so?”

And, in that moment, Liam just wants to make him understand to somehow be able to express exactly what he’s thinking. “I think it’s my favourite one yet? Because, like,” he gestures vaguely for a moment, “I mean, it’s beautiful, obviously, but… there’s something else about it? Like, something I don’t think it’d have if it was anyone else who was modelling?” Is it strange that he doesn’t even care that he might sound weird anymore because he just wants Zayn to know how important he is to this? Even if he already does. How important _Liam_ knows he is to this. “It’s– I don’t know, it just _gets_ you. So much. It’s, the whole painting, it’s just _you_.”

And, just. _Wow._ He’s never seen Zayn look like this before. He looks positively radiant, not even the slightest bit hesitant at all. “Did you know the jury’s around here somewhere? Might have introduced you to a few of them, actually. People have told me this one has a lot of bets on winning.” Oh, right, it’ supposed to be a competition. Liam forgot. He’s about to say something to that effect, but– but Zayn suddenly has this serious look on his face and he’s talking again and. “Hey, Liam?” Liam gets a tingle at the use of his name he can’t explain. “Would you– I mean, we’ve seen everything already, right, and it’s okay if you don’t want to, but– would you mind, um, coming with me? I just– there’s something I wanna show you?”

He– _what?_ Liam hears his own voice before he’s aware he’s even making a sound. “Oh, no, sure, that sounds great– should I just, should I just follow you?”

Zayn’s face loses a little of the serious look. “Yeah. It’ll just be a minute, I– this way.” He starts walking towards the exit, and Liam feels like he should take a moment to catch up on what’s happening and try to consider what this might be heading towards without hyperventilating and just, just pull himself together and try to face whatever this is in a normal way– but he ends up following Zayn without a word instead, because when he’s with Zayn everything comes on its own and if he stops to think– if he stops to think he might talk himself into making his excuses and leaving and deep down he knows that’s the last thing he wants to happen.

*

They’re at Zayn’s flat. Oh, God, they’re _at Zayn’s flat._ Liam tries desperately not to think.

Zayn takes his keys out of his pocket, fumbles with them for a moment, slides one into the keyhole and the door clicks and swings open after a slight push. He gestures for Liam to come in. Liam does, and Zayn follows, but then he gets a thoughtful look on his face and says, “Can you, um, wait here for a moment? I’ll just be a second…” and then his voice is trailing off and he’s moving away hurriedly and disappearing from view. Liam stands there next to the door and tries to stop his curiosity from eating him alive.

He attempts to distract himself by looking around (he doesn’t know what he expected Zayn and Harry’s flat to be like, but if he had pictured it it’d probably have been something like this; all he sees from here is a corridor with various doors leading off to the sides, but it’s a corridor decorated floor-to-ceiling with what looks like graffiti art in every colour imaginable. He wonders briefly if it’s Zayn’s or Harry’s or both) but it doesn’t work for long, because his thoughts keep drifting off to whatever Zayn’s doing and what all this has to do with him and what on Earth Zayn wants to show him. And he can’t figure any of it out, not for the life of him, so it’s not like thinking about it is _useful,_ but there are certain kinds of thoughts he’s never been able to control– and he’s so wrapped up in them that when he sees Zayn’s head peek out of the door on the far right he almost has a heart attack.

He sees Liam standing there and grins. “Okay, you can come in now,” he calls.

Liam just nods dumbly and lets his feet carry him towards Zayn, heart hammering against his ribcage and thoughts swarming inside his head – God, why’s he so nervous, there’s nothing to be nervous of, he is so stupid sometimes– oh.

It’s. Well. Liam may know nothing about art, but he does know paint when he sees it, and he can sort of tell the different kinds apart, and here– okay. That’s tempera paint, the big bottles they used to have at school; that is more watercolours than he’s seen in his life; that’s oil paint, acrylics, finger paint? They clutter up every surface in what looks like the living room, the sofa pushed haphazardly to the side, and in the middle of what looks like every colour ever invented stands Zayn, holding a giant roll of white paper and wearing a slightly anxious expression.

Liam– Liam needs a moment.

Zayn seems to see something on his face, because he hurriedly starts talking (and it’s strange, because Liam doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Zayn do anything hurriedly before today). “Uh, right, you’re probably wondering what the hell all this is.” He gets this sort-of rueful expression on his face. “So, like, remember when you said you loved to paint but didn’t have the time or materials or whatever? I mean, I just thought you might like to– okay, it’s a dumb idea, but, you know, I have all this paint lying around and…” He trails off and looks at Liam expectantly. Liam’s definitely never seen him this nervous before. The sudden realization that he did this, even if it was indirectly, hits him like a brick in the face. It’s the strangest feeling he’s had all week.

“Wait.” Liam’s voice sounds funny in his own ears, distant. “Wait, are you telling me all this is so I can _paint?_ ”

Zayn blinks at him. “Um. Yes? It’s okay if you don’t want to, though, we can just–” He cuts himself off, because there’s absolutely no way Liam would be able to stop the massive incredulous smile spreading across his face if he tried. “Is it okay?” Zayn asks hopefully.

For a second, Liam is speechless. This– this amazing human being has gone to all this trouble because of _something Liam said days ago_ – something that Liam links to the happiest memories he has – and he’s asking if it’s _okay._ Fuck. Liam is overwhelmed for a long moment by how much he appreciates Zayn, overwhelmed by how in awe of him he is– and then the feeling gives way to something else and he wants to kiss Zayn so much it feels like a physical ache.

Instead, he sputters, “ _Okay_ – Jesus Christ, Zayn, I– this is probably the best thing anyone has done for me _ever_.” He doesn’t mean to say it like that – too obvious, maybe – but it’s the truth, and it gushes out of him uncontrollably. “God, just– thank you, thank you so much, I–” he doesn’t trust himself to say any more, so he just babbles, “is it okay if we paint now?”

Zayn’s face finally breaks into a smile, and something inside Liam goes faint. This one– this one’s for him. _All_ of this is for him. He feels dizzy with it.

So Zayn unrolls the paper and Liam blindly grabs the first tub of paint and paintbrush he can find, and he tries to drown everything he’s feeling in the paint because he really, _really_ doesn’t trust himself to do anything stupid right now.

*

This is the most fun Liam has had in _years._

There’s so much _paint._ He feels like he’s drunk on it. It’s everywhere by now, after he’d accidentally knocked over one of the big tempera bottles and gotten lilac all over himself; Zayn had laughed himself silly at him, which had caused Liam to fling a handful of lilac at him in retaliation. And, well, what started off as nice peaceful painting has now escalated into an all-out paint fight.

Liam lunges for Zayn with green hands, but Zayn dances out of the way and even manages to paint a bright orange streak down Liam’s cheek with the brush he’s still holding. Liam huffs in frustration, makes another grab and misses again; Zayn’s laughter rings out, gloriously unrestrained, and despite the paint all over his face, Liam can’t help but listen to it in wonder.

Watching Zayn like this is something he never thought he’d get to do. It’s wildly different from his model persona and the almost-hesitant look in his eyes when he usually talks to Liam; Liam gets the feeling that he’s seeing Zayn with his boundaries down, all easy laughter and restless limbs and mirth in his eyes. It makes Liam want to stop and watch, but it brings out something inside him too, he’s surprised to realize; he feels spontaneous, he feels vibrant, he feels _alive._

He can feel his heart thudding against his ribcage, pounding in his ears, like it’s waiting for something. He ignores it as best as he can.

He turns his attention back to Zayn instead. He’s now wearing a smug grin that Liam intends to wipe off his face as soon as he can. “Looks like I’m winning, right?”

Liam glances down at himself, then back at Zayn, who has about half the amount of paint on him that Liam has. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see what can be done about that.”

They’re sort of– dancing around each other now, neither of them making a move, each tensed in anticipation for the other’s attack. Liam looks Zayn in the eye, who stares defiantly back at him, a grin just out of sight; for a second, Liam feels something clench in his gut, a flash of expectation that seems slightly out of place, and then Zayn’s lunging. Liam steps back with a short laugh, circles around Zayn, pounces– then Zayn’s whirling around to meet him and Liam grabs both of his hands without thinking and they stay there.

It’s like that for a long moment.

Liam hears more than feels his breath coming in short pants; he’s dimly aware of the fact that even though he’s loosened his grip, Zayn’s hands stay right where they are, getting smeared with drying green paint. Everything– everything is far too _real,_ is the thing, he’s touching Zayn and Zayn’s not moving away and oh _oh_ he can’t even think about what this could mean – he hears his pulse deep in his eardrums – then Zayn’s hands are moving, but they’re curling around Liam’s and Liam only has time to register that his thumb is now on the little bird before he hears Zayn’s voice. And Zayn’s voice changes everything.

“You can kiss me now, if you’d like.”

There’s no time for thinking. There’s no way he can stop everything that’s building up and roaring and swelling like a wave inside him. There’s only his lips and Zayn’s lips, and they’re apart, Liam could swear they’re apart, but all it takes is the most unconscious movement forward and suddenly they’re not.

Zayn’s lips are unbearably soft against his; Liam tries to hold it in, but he ends up gasping a little at the first touch. It’s close-mouthed until it’s not, until Liam’s tongue sneaks out of his mouth to lick slowly at Zayn’s bottom lip and Zayn’s mouth falls open. Liam feels Zayn’s hand come up to scrabble at the back of his neck, trying to hold on to the short hairs there, and is hyperaware of his own hand resting against Zayn’s lower back and pulling him in closer as he licks into Zayn’s mouth like he’s done it a thousand times before. Zayn makes a noise at that, quiet and breathy, but it’s enough to make Liam feel like he’s weightless as their lips move against each other and Zayn drags his teeth along Liam’s tongue and gently into his bottom lip as they pull apart.

There’s a moment of stillness, their lips still only barely inches from each other. Liam’s eyes dart all over Zayn’s face because it’s like he has to take it all in again, because he’s staring at the face of _someone he’s kissed._ Holy _shit._

And then, “ _God._ What if I told you I’ve wanted to do that since Monday?”

Liam feels his eyebrows shoot up. “You _what?_ ”

Zayn smiles a little, like he’s self-conscious. It’s the first time he’s smiled since they kissed. Liam is probably going to have a heart attack. “This is actually sort of embarrassing, but, like, remember when I first met you? When I told you I’d left my sandwich at home? It was, um, it was in my bag the whole time. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

Liam is. Liam is speechless. The only thing he can do is snake a hand around Zayn’s paint-splattered neck, finally, _finally_ trace his hairline at the back of it, and watch in amazement as Zayn shivers visibly and tilts his head to the side for more. Liam surges forward and presses a kiss to the spot between Zayn’s neck and jaw just for the hell of it, just to get used to the fact that now, apparently, he can. He listens to Zayn sigh and wants to find a way to keep that sound with him for the rest of his life.

“I, um.” Okay, so his voice apparently still works. That’s. That’s good. He moves in, meaning to get his lips on some part of Zayn’s body again, because it feels like it’s been too long, and is met with his lips, which. He’ll take that. He’ll definitely take that. Liam’s entire body feels like it’s glowing as their lips slide against each other for the second time, slick and warm and heavenly – and then Liam pulls back just enough and says, “Me too?” He can feel his face flare even after everything. “I mean, I’ve sort of wanted to kiss you since I saw you. Even though I was convinced you’d never even want to talk to me.” He feels Zayn’s arms snake around his middle and hold him tight. _God._ He pauses for just long enough to peck Zayn’s lips again, laughing breathlessly when Zayn whines and tries to chase his mouth as he pulls back, obliging him with another one. “Actually, I was sure I’d never in a million years have a chance. Am I an idiot?”

“The worst kind,” Zayn mumbles from right up close, lips fitting themselves to Liam’s again, and Liam hasn’t felt less like thinking in his _life._

*

(Later, when they’ve kissed for long enough that Liam’s lips are all pink and sensitive and his neck is red from Zayn’s wonderful, wonderful stubble and the paint’s dried on both of them so that their colours are all mixed together, Liam will remember something. He’ll dig into his pocket and retrieve the notepad he put there what feels like days ago and will let Zayn look at his drawings, one by one; he’ll watch the way his face, amazingly enough, gets this new expression of wonder each time he turns the page. And when Zayn looks at him incredulously and tells him they’re all _amazing,_ he believes him. Something tells him he’s going to be doing a lot more drawing in the near future.)

(He still hasn’t figured out a way to draw what Zayn’s lips taste like, but he’s sure he’ll get there.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [teacupsizedlouis](http://teacupsizedlouis.tumblr.com)
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!


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